The mountain mists, condensing at our voice
  Under the moon, had spread their snowy flakes,
  From the keen ice shielding our linkèd sleep.
  Then two dreams came. One I remember not.
  But in the other his pale wound-worn limbs
  Fell from Prometheus, and the azure night
  Grew radiant with the glory of that form
  Which lives unchanged within, and his voice fell
  Like music which makes giddy the dim brain,
  Faint with intoxication of keen joy:
  'Sister of her whose footsteps pave the world
  With loveliness--more fair than aught but her,
  Whose shadow thou art--lift thine eyes on me.'
  I lifted them; the overpowering light
  Of that immortal shape was shadowed o'er
  By love; which, from his soft and flowing limbs,
  And passion-parted lips, and keen, faint eyes,
  Steamed forth like vaporous fire; an atmosphere
  Which wrapped me in its all-dissolving power,
  As the warm ether of the morning sun
  Wraps ere it drinks some cloud of wandering dew.
  I saw not, heard not, moved not, only felt
  His presence flow and mingle through my blood
  Till it became his life, and his grew mine,